Living a small life

In one of my book clubs, I asked a question to my participants (mostly retired women), “How do you make friends at this age?” We were discussing How to Age Disgracefully by Clare Pooley. In the book, one elderly woman is determined to make friends so she makes a list of what she needs to do. I was curious. How do people at a certain age make friends? The resounding response was it is hard. One has to get oneself out there. Some said they joined book clubs at the library to meet people, one person throws parties at their house, some joined kayaking groups, gymnasiums, hiking groups – all in an effort to form a connection with another human being. One person said they are so comfortable in their home that they would never come out if they didn’t have five book clubs to go to. Some had lost their partners, the children have grown and moved away, and now they are alone.

I thought about my life. I am in a new phase in life. The youngest is still in college but he is far away. And when he comes home, it seems like he has outgrown this home. He is eager to make it on his own. The oldest has made it on their own, moved out, doing well. That stage of insanity in terms of work, dinner, practice, homework, swim meets, basketball, baseball, softball, choir practice, cello lessons are behind me. Now it is work and then home. A walk after work, quiet dinner, and then a book. On Mondays each week, I think this coming weekend I am going to do something, maybe go to the city, see some excitement. Then Thursday comes around and I get tired. The weekend plans hardly materialize. Some close friends from India asked me the other day, “What’s going on with you? What’s new?” I have no answer to that. My life truly is simply going to work and coming home. A small life, as I learned from the book Mrs. Queen’s Rise to Fame by Olivia Ford.

If I hadn’t read Debbie Tung’s Quiet Girl in a Noisy World, I would worry something is wrong with me. I say that because this small life suits me well. Even as a teenager, I loved staying at home. My mother was surprised when I didn’t put up a fight when she dictated that I was responsible for walking the dog each day at 5 pm right after college since the dog was mine. While all my friends went to movies, stayed at campus spending time together, I dutifully got on the public bus and headed home. After walking Nabab, I stayed home to read, do homework, hang out with Ma. I did complain a few times but my love for my dog obviously was more than my desire to spend time with friends after class. I never truly had FOMO (fear of missing out, a term I learned from my kids) and I don’t have it now.

I was talking about the small life I lead with a friend at work who also likes to stay home. And she correctly pointed out the difference between being lonely and being alone. Are you content being alone? Yes. Like the participant in my book club, if I didn’t have to go to work, I could stay home all day and not talk to a soul. Having said that, I work at a public library, where my people energy is depleted after spending time with people for 7 and a half hours. I don’t know if I would feel the same way if I did not have a job. Will I seek out company? I will find out in a few years. Retirement here I come.

I am a bully….

at work, or so I am told. I often hear my colleagues telling me “You are a bully.” I hope those words are spoken lovingly but lately I have wondered could there be a teensy bit of accusation in it? One day I was pondering upon my behavior and why it can look forceful to some who are not used to Bengali culture.

I invite everyone to eat together. I do have a golden retriever kind of energy. So my exuberant “Do you want to eat with us?” can seem too much. And I realize my energy can sometimes intimidate new people. Woah, tone it down lady!

My love language is food. I come from a culture where inviting people to break bread (or eat rice) is customary. We show love that way, even to strangers. I remember when visitors came in the afternoon, even after we had finished our lunch, ma or baba would say to them, “Kheye jao.” (Eat here). When I went to school, lunch time was special because we shared our tiffin. We bonded over food. In college, my friends and I would go to restaurants or the college canteen, pool our meager resources together, order what we could afford, and share everything. When I went to someone’s house, they insisted on feeding me too. The insistence bordered on bullying. But now, as I lose those people to eternal rest, I smile at their desire to heap food upon me. That was their way of showering their love.

It is in my culture to show appreciation, familiarity, love by inviting someone to the table. But I am not in Bengal. I sometimes forget I am in a country where my colleagues have had different upbringing. They may not want to eat with me or in a group. Many of them are introverted and want that 30 minutes of lunch time to recharge their people meter with some alone time. And my exuberance can seem like bullying.

Since I started self reflecting, I decided I am going to behave better, curb my enthusiasm, give people space, respect the culture here. Then I go to work, get genuinely happy seeing my coworkers, and ask, “When are we eating?” and “Come, eat with us!”

After the words leave my mouth, I think, “I failed. Again! I will try to behave tomorrow. “

Hope springs eternal.

Galapagos Islands or is it paradise? Day 4

One thing about the Galapagos was that we never had bad weather. I would open my eyes, look out of the window of the hotel and be dazzled by clear blue sky, a few errant fluffy clouds, and golden sunshine.

On the fourth day, our morning was free as we were going to meet our guide for Los Tuneles snorkeling tour at 11:20 am at our lobby. The tour agency who had arranged our trip suggested we take the morning to go visit flamingos in Flamingo Lagoon which was no more than 10 minutes walk from our hotel. So we did and were rewarded with a body of water filled with these pink, long legged, graceful birds either looking for food or just being – still, stoic. Just standing there looking at the flamingos and the stillness evoked a sense of calm. There was no one around us, not a sound. It was just the three of us and a lagoon full of birds.

We met our guide for the day, Carlos. at the dock who took us on a boat and explained to us about dry landing and wet landing before we started our journey to the lava tunnels under water where we were going to be snorkeling to see the various species of marine life of the Galapagos. Before we went to the dock, we were taken to a store to get wet suits and snorkeling gear. I am not a swimmer and very uncomfortable in water but I was determined to try snorkeling so I took my gear as well. Again, after an hour or so we arrived at the tunnels, the captain cut the engine and Carlos asked us to suit up and jump in.

I jumped in after Sean and immediately suffered a panic attack. It was in the middle of the ocean. I am claustrophobic. I had never snorkeled in my life and when the snorkel clamped my nose my brain panicked. I climbed back on the boat while the others went away from it to see the various forms of life under water. A universe that exists with all its splendor but we don’t get to see it unless we go on such snorkeling or scuba diving trips. The group was gone for more than 45 minutes and when they came back their excitement was palpable. They swam with sea turtles, dance with sea lions, and ducked way down to see white tip sharks at the sandy bottom. Even stoic Ryan kept saying “That was something else.”

While I was waiting for them on the boat, I saw a few sea turtles lazily swim by me. The most fun to witness was how a sea lion was playing with two snorkelers right next to our boat. Two young men were bobbing up and down near us, looking out for the sea lion. The sea lion popped up near them, turned its head to see where they were and slid under water again to encircle them. It was so clear that he was playing with the two humans. When the group was gone I sat by myself on the boat, lamenting my lack of confidence in water but I looked around me and gave thanks. I was sitting on a gently rocking boat in crystal clear, aquamarine water, under a brilliant blue sky. Everything was quiet, still. I could hear my thoughts and the occasional birdsong. Sea turtles floated by gently, gracefully. Colorful fish came close to the surface, perhaps to show me their beauty as a consolation prize. I felt lucky.

When the group came back, we had lunch on the boat. The lunches on the boats were very basic, somewhat plain so that folks with sea sickness had no trouble when the boats sailed. The fare was again plain rice, salad, boiled potatoes, and sautéed tuna steak with fresh lime. But before lunch, the boat took us to another spot for snorkeling only 15 minutes away from the first spot.

After lunch we went to see the lava rock formation on land. We all embarked from the speed boat and made our way on the sharp lava rocks. The Italian family who were with us on the boat said the lava tunnels resembled the bridges in Venice. We looked at the tunnels again and agreed. We looked down at the clear water to see more sea turtles gently gliding away, colorful fish, of course. The cutest, however, was a baby blue-footed boobie whose feet had not turned blue (it had not eaten enough fresh fish containing the pigment carotenoids) but it was just a matter of time. The baby sat there very close to us and our guide kept reminding us not to get too close to it. The baby exhibited no fear for the humans, which made me very happy. The parents sat a little distance away, perhaps to take a break from constantly feeding their very hungry baby. We also saw two Great Blue Heron siblings in a next, their necks extended, awaiting the return of their parents. They looked at us as we passed by them with relative calm. That is the ambiance I remember in the islands – in the people, nature, animals. Even when the sea lions fought with each other for a better spot on the docks to sleep, their fights lasted for a minute or two before they fell into deep sleep again.

I am an anxious person with constantly tight shoulders. On the islands, amidst this stillness, I felt my shoulders relax.

After the walk on the lava arcs, and the unforgettable experience, we were dropped off at our hotel. We strolled along the streets of beautiful Isabela island after dinner, taking in the daily lives of the islanders. We came across a small stadium, brightly lit up and packed with people, cheering on a two teams of senior volley ballers. We learnt that soccer and volley ball were the two major sports in Ecuador along with cycling. Volleyball definitely attracted the islanders as men, women, and children came together to cheer on the teams. We took the long way back to the hotel, looking at the twinkling lights of the restaurants that were away from the main thoroughfare and some tourists like us who were sitting at the tables looking at photos of their days on the phone.

On the fifth day we went kayaking.

Solitary vs lonely

While chopping vegetables, profound thoughts come to me. Like whether I am a lover of solitude or am I lonely? I am alone this weekend, but more about that later. I am also at an interesting transitional point in life. My two children are adults now. I am in a comfortable relationship with my partner where the throes of passion (both in love and anger) are on the simmer. We spend our evenings in relative quiet, he doing his thing and me reading. We give each other space to pursue happiness in our own ways. It took me a while to realize that my happiness is not dependent on anyone but me. Gone are the days of hectic activities of school, work, dinner, homework, swim practice, baseball practice. I have a lot of time in my hands and no one to dictate me how to spend my free time. I choose solitude and books. I like this new phase in my life and in our relationship.

As I said, I am alone this weekend. Since I came from work last evening, I have not spoken to anyone except for a friend who called me to talk about book donation. I want to see if I can go through the weekend without actually interacting with another human being. I have some errands to run so that may be difficult. But I will not engage in any meaningful conversation with anyone. A social experiment, I call it. I read somewhere that urban loneliness is affecting not only the elderly population but also the young. I am not elderly yet. Middle aged and a recluse. I remember an interview of a young woman who had moved to a city for work. She never spoke to anyone over the weekends when she didn’t have work. I thought of her today. Did she miss human interaction? Why don’t I? Interestingly, when I am with my friends at work, I love our engagement. I love them. I love that we can laugh together. But once I come home, I am satisfied to just be home.

This is not a new thing. My very extroverted mother did not understand my need to be away from people. If I made a plan to meet up with friends, I dreaded the meet-up and complained constantly that I did not want to go. “But these are your dear friends!” Ma would say. And when I actually dragged myself to meet them, I had the best time. But when I came back, I was also relieved to be home and happy that I had a good time.

Along with age, I have grown to love this solitude even more. I have wondered if I am lonely. Rarely do I have miss being with people. Strangely though, all my jobs have been people oriented. I work at a public library and I interact with people all day and I do it well.

Here I am, sitting in complete silence in my house, typing my thoughts. I was in the middle of making bed and folding laundry but there is no one in the house to expect me to finish that. That is a luxury – to be on my own timeline, with my own thoughts.

Lastly, there is a great fiction depicting this transitional phase in women by Catherine Newman called Sandwich. Some books speak to you and some books talk about you. Sandwich does both.

What is the difference between solitude and loneliness?

Skunk days

I read somewhere that aging is not the issue, it’s side effects are. One of the side effects of aging is losing vibrancy (at least for me). The edges that were sharp become somewhat blunt and lines that were prominent become blurry – like the jawline. As my face becomes invisible each day, I turn to kajol to accentuate my eyes and lipstick to color my lips and fight a losing battle against fading. Why? Because I like to look at my kohl lined eyes and dark lips in the mirror when I get ready for work.

This poses a problem for me in the month of May. T.S Eliot picked on the month of April and reviled it as being the cruelest month. I disagree, sir. May is the cruelest month. It turned my world upside down and left me changed forever. As the month of May approaches, I find a tightness in my heart and brace for intense hurt. Ma died on May 9th, 2021 and baba followed her 10 days later. After 3 years, I have come to accept the deaths, but the trauma of Covid, helplessness, not being there, imagining their fear still keep me up some nights. All those traumatizing moments come back at odd times causing skunk days. What is that you ask? When the tears flow freely as I drive to work and I have to hastily clean up my kajol before I enter the library, when a simple word brings forth tears that I furiously blink away, when I often take deep breaths and gulp down the hurt and show a face which says, ‘nothing to see here. Just another usual day, folks.’

In the month of May, I am hyper aware of black streaks that threaten to run down my face (or blue streaks since I am in love with my blue eyeliner that matches with my blue frame) and I have my skunk days. May 9th was a skunk day, May 19th, most likely will be another skunk day with semi skunk days in between.

Why did I write this blog? Not to garner sympathy. I am in a better place – a place of acceptance and living my life to the best of my ability. But I wrote this blog because I know there are millions of you out there who lost your loved ones to Covid or to sickness or accident. I know we will continue to have these days when the tightness in our hearts will make it difficult to breathe sometimes, when well meaning folks around us will not be able to comprehend the depth of our pain because grieving is a solitary act, but we will breathe, and smile, and get through till the tightness eases and our sounds of laughter rings true again.

A post on kindness

I don’t remember a time when human beings were not intent on killing each other. My childhood was an era of oblivion, of course, but ever since I started paying attention to the wider world around me I read about cruelty meted out by human beings to other humans (and animals). Religion, borders, language, ethnicity – all become excuses to slaughter one another. But my post today is about the kindness that surrounds us too. Often, the acts of kindness do not make it to the mainstream media but if we look around us mindfully, we see it. There is this one poem that I listened to recently, read out by non other than the inimitable Helen Bonham Carter (I am a big fan). I must have listened to it more than a dozen times by now. It creates a warm feeling in my heart. The poem inspired me to write this post. Here is the poem:

Small Kindnesses

by Danusha Laméris

I’ve been thinking about the way, when you walk
down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs
to let you by. Or how strangers still say “bless you”
when someone sneezes, a leftover
from the Bubonic plague. “Don’t die,” we are saying.
And sometimes, when you spill lemons
from your grocery bag, someone else will help you
pick them up. Mostly, we don’t want to harm each other.
We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot,
and to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile
at them and for them to smile back. For the waitress
to call us honey when she sets down the bowl of clam chowder,
and for the driver in the red pick-up truck to let us pass.
We have so little of each other, now. So far
from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange.
What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these
fleeting temples we make together when we say, “Here,
have my seat,” “Go ahead—you first,” “I like your hat.”

— The New York Times (9/19/2019), Bonfire Opera

I want to write about the overpouring of kindness Gouri received from complete strangers thousands and thousands of miles away from her. Gouri came to work for my parents about 15 years ago. She had to heal first after she tried die by setting herself on fire. Married to a cruel man at the age of 14, she wanted to escape her fate by ending her life. She survived but with life altering scars all over her body and mind. Recently, the skin around her neck started contracting from the injuries, resulting in difficulty swallowing. We started looking for surgery to rectify that. But corrective surgery is expensive. I needed help to help her. After a lot of deliberation and discussions with my family, I decided to send out a plea for financial help in social media. I was tentative about my decision to ask for help though. Would people care or simply scroll through?

The response was overwhelming. I cried. Of course I cried. The kindness of my friends and acquaintances transcended every barrier – Distance from the affected woman, not knowing anything about her except for my words. Her need and her unfortunate circumstances were enough for them. I found empathy, not pity in their words. Friends from India wired money directly to Gouri’s bank account, friends in USA sent money to me which I then transferred. At work, my dearest friend handed me cash with tears in her eyes. “This could have been our daughters,” she said. This could have been. Those who could not help financially sent their best wishes for Gouri’s recovery. I asked Gouri if I could share her photo so everyone knew what the money was going to heal. She is very reticent about standing before a camera, but she took a selfie and sent it to me, saying, “Didi, I know you will only do what is best for me.” Her unwavering confidence in me warmed my heart.

The surgery took place a month and a half ago. While the surgery was not complicated, the recovery was long and painful. But Gouri is doing very well. She has to wear a collar around her neck for a year to prevent the skin from further contracting. The collar, she says, is uncomfortable in Kolkata’s heat but she wears it religiously to let her neck heal. She met with the doctor again to operate on the burn injury in her shoulders and arm. She can not straighten her arm due to the burns. And the money that complete strangers sent to her for her surgery will cover the second surgery as well. This will also take time and involve pain and long recovery. But Gouri is willing to go through with it all for a chance at better quality of life. The final surgery will, hopefully, be on her face to cover the scars from the burn but the doctor has not mentioned anything about that yet. He is focused on functionality over beauty at this point.

This morning, as I read about the deaths in newspaper, I honed in on the kindness.

Thank you, whoever you are…

I lazily opened the email from WordPress about my February stats. Generally I delete them since I have shown no love to whatmamathinks for many, many months. When I get the monthly emails about stats, I simply delete them without opening. I was in a phone surfing mood (read waste my time mood) and I thought let me see the flatline of my blog. I opened it and frowned. The stats were quite good. Some folks from all over the world had read my blogs. WordPress users, you know how the chart gives you fingers when they show your stats. The short bars, then a long bar, followed by a short bar. I always chuckled at the image – my blog post is showing me the finger. This February, the bars were all on the higher side. No flatline!

Who are you? How did you find my blog? What do you find interesting? I am thrilled that you took the time. Thank you!

I have a hard time opening this site now. I poured my grief here after my parents died. Writing here helped my broken heart. I consider this a vessel which carries my sorrow. Once upon a time, opening the blog site was joyful. I wrote about my children’s childhood, I wrote about some stories from my past, my romance, my newly married years, little joys, little sorrows, my adventures, my travels. Then after that awful May of 2021, this blog site became my sounding board (writing board). So this site is truly a tapestry of my life – it holds sunshine and rain.

Thank you for reading about my life. In this crazy world of ours where humans are intent on killing each other, I hope you read my blogs and found something relatable. I hope you smiled at some of them. I hope you found comfort in some. If I could reach you in any way, even in a miniscule way, I will feel grateful, fulfilled.

Lately, I have been thinking of writing again. We shall see. The February stats energized me a little bit. But even if the stats flat line, it doesn’t matter. At the end of the day, I really write the blogs for myself and my children. My hope is they will have this site to look back on and find their childhood. I hope this will be their treasure chest of memories and I am the archivist like my parents were for my childhood.

I am writing one about book marks. Doesn’t the subject make you so curious? Aren’t you chomping at the bit to read about book marks? I thought so! 🙂

Patience, readers. I have to take baby steps back into it. For today, this is it.

Back at it….maybe?

Yesterday, the emails kept coming. Ping…ping…ping. They were from WordPress telling me I had comments on my blogs. That was surprising since this blogsite has been lying dormant for many months. It is not that I don’t think about this space. I think about it all the time. As I drive to work or gym, I formulate in my head, sentences that I would write in the blogs. But when the day is done, I look at my laptop and never turn it on.

Yesterday, my littlest cousin in Kolkata could not sleep so she went to my blogsite and read many of my blogs. Not only that, she kept writing comments on them. My favorite was “I love you so much, Didi.” I read the blogs where she left comments. Some of the blogs were sad, some of them were general observations of life around me. Seeing her comments and the fact that she was reading them thousands of miles away made me feel connected. I have written so much about my life in this space. I have written about my children, my travels, my everyday life that encompasses my joys as well as my grief. I still have not seen a grief counselor, although I am getting closer to the idea but this blogsite has helped me cope by allowing me to write down my feelings. I made those public and readers responded by saying some of those blogs helped them process their grief. That made me feel less alone.

We had beautiful weather this week. The barren trees are sprouting their luminous green, the green that is my absolute favorite. This new green that I get to see every year fills me with hope. This is potential at its finest. What flowers will May bring? How this nascent green will change to a deeper, somber green as the summer progresses till they are leached of their colors and become red and golden? I love this process, this circle of life. And I don’t mind my own transition from somber, deep green to the red and golden of mature years. Sure, I don’t enjoy the new medications that get added to my life, or the daily aches and pains of getting older, but I wonder with some anticipation (and a little dread of losing people I love) how the next phase would be? For the most part, I am eager to move on with life. At certain times, I am wistful. Especially as I see my children become their own people with their own lives. This is what every parent hopes for, yet there is a twinge in my heart as the grip loosens. Did I give them my best? Did I enjoy them to the fullest when they were younger? Why did I complain so much about how busy life was when they were little? Why did I make life so busy? So many questions, so much self critique. However, despite that, I feel so proud of them. Both of them are good people.

Back to weather. Yesterday, Sean and I went for a long walk in a local park. We decided to leave the paved walkway and follow a trail deeper into the woods. I was looking at my feet as I walked, mindful of treacherous roots that poked above the ground dangerously. I had already stumbled a couple of times but managed to stay on my feet. We stopped for a second and I looked around me. Sean was in mid conversation, saying something about his work. I touched his arm, and whispered, “Look! Look around us.” We were surrounded by young royals – trees that were getting their new leaves. The sun tried to peek in through the foliage that rendered the leaves luminous, fluorescent even. There was nobody around us. There was no sound except sweet chirp of birds. I felt insignificant and I felt special all at the same time. Insignificant in front of such majesty and special because I got to witness it.

I don’t go to any building that is designated as a place of worship. The little opening, surrounded by trees, sunlight creating dappled shadows around me was my temple, my church, my mosque. I did not pray. But I gave my thanks.

Yesterday was a weird day.

Yesterday was a weird day. I hardly saw any of my family members. The partner is traveling, daughter was working and my eighteen year old son did an errand and then shut himself in his room for the rest of the day, and night. It is interesting how little I see of him even when he is home. I noticed this with Sahana before she headed out to college and I am noticing this with my youngest too. They let us know that it is time to loosen the grip, it is time to let go. I think of how their little hands fit in mine just a few years ago. I miss that touch but it makes me happy to see they are ready to take the flight.

I ditched going to the gym yesterday and cooked for the week instead. I even baked a cookie cake for no reason at all, because, why not?

I ordered biriyani from a local store. IT WAS NOT A GOOD IDEA. I was sick as a dog at night. I haven’t been that sick for a very long time. Before I got sick though, I spoke to my cousin sister for a very long time and realized how much I needed that conversation. So that was nice. And she offered to be my Piglet when I needed her. She read my previous blog.

This morning, though, the sun is shining. I am sitting in front of my parents (their photos). And I have this book on my lap.

On days, when I feel I have nothing to look forward to this book may provide some inspiration. I forget to focus on the little joys sometimes and require a reminder once in a while that even pouring cup of coffee in the morning can be a simple delight. A hot shower on a cold day. Sitting by the sun on my reading chair. The sunset that I get to witness everyday from my kitchen window. My dear friend, the lop sided oak tree in my back yard is full of buds. The cherry blossoms in my neighborhood are blooming their vibrant pink. The pink and white rhododendrons will appear soon to brighten the world briefly.

My daughter looks hopeful these days and my son can not wait to go to college.

Don’t ask me…please don’t!

I brace myself for ice breakers in meetings. The worst of them is “tell us your strengths”. What are you good at? My mind goes blank. I hear others come up with wonderful strengths but my brain freezes. The only thing that surfaces is reading. I read a lot. But I don’t read informative non fiction. I read books that appeal to me. Stories appeal to me so that is what I read.

After some thinking, I stammered, “I have been told I ask good questions and I listen.” Another friend in the meeting chimed in, “You ask outstanding question.” She comes to my book clubs so her compliment was wonderful. I was relieved when I could pass the mike to another participant in the meeting.

I was complaining to my daughter that I can not think of my strengths when asked and I hate ice breakers. She asked me what I said. And then advised, “Mom, don’t start the sentence by saying you have been told that you are good at something. Own your strengths. Tell them you are a good listener. End of sentence.”

I said she was right. Why am I so wishy washy when it comes to saying my strengths out loud? I blame my upbringing. I always blame my upbringing when something goes wrong. Don’t you? 🤣🤣

Don’t sing your own praise, let the world tell you you are good – this mantra was ingrained in me since I can remember. Be humble. I take humility seriously. Too seriously, as I find out these days.

I asked my son, “I stumble when I am asked about my strengths. I never know what to say.”

He kept it simple. “Tell them you are a great mother.”

“Thank you. But how does that relate to my work?”

“What are you talking about? Great mothers are great leaders.”

This blog is not about you all (those of you know me) telling me my strengths. Nor am I fishing for compliments. I actually quite like myself. My strengths are kindness, being available, empathy. I am indeed a good listener. People feel comfortable talking to me and I do ask good questions. See, I can write them all down. I can not articulate them when asked.